


disturbia

by pensee



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Almost Discovered, Almost caught in the act, Back from college Will, Birthdays and family reunions, College, Consensual grandfather/grandson incest, Creampie, Excessive creampie mentioned, Following tags only apply to Chapter 2, Grandpa Hannibal, Grandpa Kink, Handwavey chair sex, Hannibal is Will's actual grandfather, Hannibal looks like Markus btw, Jealousy, Lewds, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Tape, Slice of Life, Somnophilia, Suburbia lite, Will Lecter's Extremely Tight Booty Shorts Challenge 2k20, as in, general inappropriateness, inappropriate swimwear, nude photographs, this is awful I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: “I’m going out, honey, you want to come with me to ‘pick up dinner’?” she asks meaningfully, surprised when Will does not return her goofy eyebrow waggle, curled up like a pretzel on the couch, Hannibal pretending to be unaware as he plays Words With Friends on his new tablet.The latest and greatest model had been a gift from this morning, and Alana had since promised nothing more elaborate than a quiet dinner with a few friends. However, she had also tapped most of her not-insignificant contacts to get takeaway from Hannibal’s favorite French restaurant in the city, which was notorious for a fussy executive chef who insisted takeout was for those poor souls unappreciative of the full restaurant experience.“I’m fine right here,” Will hums, not even looking at her, poking a bare toe against the arm of Hannibal’s chair.Without looking up from his tablet, Hannibal grabs Will’s ankle and shoves his foot back towards the sofa.My boys, Alana chuckles to herself, sure to toss a, “Thanks for letting me fend for myself!” over her shoulder as she goes.-It’s Hannibal’s sixty-second birthday, and that means that Will gets to come over to visit with Papa, his favorite time of year.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Alana Bloom, OC/OC, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 77
Kudos: 310





	1. birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thebeespatella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/gifts).



> Well, this kink already happened-ish with Duncan Vizla in my other fic, but all roads lead back to Hannigram, so [shrugs]. Enjoy the filth. 
> 
> bees, you know why.

It’s piping hot on the sidewalk, the middle of summer, the smell of freshly cut grass wafting over artfully trimmed hedges and white picket fences alike. His father’s sixty-second birthday weekend, and Harris shivers as he pulls up to the six-bedroom, five and a half bath monstrosity that his parents call home.

 _Harris_? his mother had laughed, when he’d announced he’d finally gone through with legally changing his name. But she had supported him, he thought, unlike the accusing maroon eyes studying him like a pinned specimen from across the dinner table.

_Well, Ma, it’s not like there are that many Hannibals running around nowadays._

_Not since Carthage, no_ , Alana had chuckled, good-natured as always, and the fond memory gives Harris the courage to step across the curb and closer to the threshold of this terrible place he returns to during most major holidays, eternally surprised when his father allows him egress to leave.

 _I have a few allies, at least_ , he thinks gratefully, glancing at Betty and her sympathetic expression as he takes her hand in his.

Will, standing sullenly behind them, impatient and overeager to get reacquainted with his grandparents, pushes between them, his hastily done sneakers threatening to slide entirely off his feet, undone laces streaming like little white flags as the door opens and he flies into his grandmother’s arms.

 _So, it begins_ , Harris swallows to himself, and pastes on a winning smile.

_Did you remember the cake_? Alana texts Anthony, for the third time today.

Something had told her to either bite the bullet and bake one herself, the way Hannibal would’ve done if it had been her birthday, but she’s comparatively hopeless in the kitchen, even after all these years, and Dimmond had offered to be “helpful” with the dinner preparations.

No response. _Damn_. And everyone who knew Dimmond knew he never actually picked up the phone when someone found the sense to try to call.

_Well, if you want something done right…_

“I’m going out, honey, you want to come with me to ‘pick up dinner’?” she asks meaningfully, surprised when Will does not return her goofy eyebrow waggle, curled up like a pretzel on the couch, Hannibal pretending to be unaware as he plays Words With Friends on his new tablet.

The latest and greatest model had been a gift from this morning, and Alana had since promised nothing more elaborate than a quiet dinner with a few friends. However, she had also tapped most of her not-insignificant contacts to get takeaway from Hannibal’s favorite French restaurant in the city, which was notorious for a fussy executive chef who insisted takeout was for those poor souls unappreciative of the full restaurant experience.

“I’m fine right here,” Will hums, not even looking at her, poking a bare toe against the arm of Hannibal’s chair.

Without looking up from his tablet, Hannibal grabs Will’s ankle and shoves his foot back towards the sofa.

 _My boys_ , Alana chuckles to herself, sure to toss a, “Thanks for letting me fend for myself!” over her shoulder as she goes.

Will, out of whatever remaining love he has for his grandmother, would usually reply, but he is too preoccupied with his grandfather at the moment, his usually quiet adoration building to a fever pitch with every passing second.

“ _Will_!” he hears, vaguely, from upstairs, but he’s too lost in studying the soft, intricate patterns of Papa’s sweater, the way the fabric stretches over his grandfather’s veiny, muscular forearms.

“Are you going to answer your father?”

Will snorts, stretching out onto the arm of the couch, propping his chin up and wiggling his ass in the air for a moment before settling down prone. He does not miss the way Papa’s eyes are drawn to his restless squirming, though he feigns ignorance by hiding behind his shoulder-length curls.

“Don’t act like a child, William. It’s unbecoming,” Hannibal chides, but does not move a finger to stop him, and Will sighs.

“You don’t respect him. It’s obvious. Why should I?”

The posed question is genuine, and Hannibal removes his reading glasses, Will’s breath catching as his Papa’s eyes sparkle like dark amber in the late afternoon light streaming in the sunroom windows.

“He is your father,” Hannibal smirks, the amused curve of it nearly concealed by the surprising bulk of the beard he has grown in the last six months since Will has seen him. Will does not know if he likes it or not, but he wants to feel it against the palest parts of his inner thighs before making a final decision.

“ _WILL_!” from upstairs, much louder now, and Will rolls his eyes.

 _Come down the damned stairs if you want me so much_.

“I’m coming!” he roars back, lip caught between his teeth as he rises, lazy and slow.

Bending at the waist, he whispers to Papa, “It’s not that I don’t respect him. I just wanted to stay with you a whole lot more.”

Kisses his bearded cheek to take the sting out of leaving, but not the tease as he puts the slightest bit of sway into his hips, forever glad that his parents thought his tight jeans were merely a passing fashion fad and not a way to get under Papa’s skin.

Despite its faults, Harris cannot blame his childhood home for lack of any luxury, he thinks, finally unpacked and ready to lounge by the pool as Alana and Betty giggle over some appetizer with a name— _suck on that, five years of French_ —he still cannot for the life of him pronounce. Bedelia and that ludicrous horndog Dimmond are chatting at the bar, where his father is dispensing drinks by the handful.

 _He’s occupied, he’s distracted, he’s being social_ is the running mental reassurance he comforts himself with. _Will’s safe_.

 _For now_ , his ever-fearful lizard brain provides unhelpfully, watching Will and Garrett’s daughter Abigail splash each other in the shallows of the Olympic-sized swimming pool Hannibal had insisted tearing up their pristine back yard for when they’d first bought the house.

Will is wearing something that would probably be acceptable attire among competitive swimmers, a small band of fabric that barely covers his butt, although the clammy feeling on the back of Harris’s neck tells him that Will’s choice of attire is something closer to showing off than could be considered entirely platonic.

While they were unpacking, he’d forgotten the dread that hung over their family for a minute, Betty arguing with him about whether or not they’d brought the extra phone charger, but then they’d looked at each other and remembered that Will and his grandfather might be downstairs together. Alone.

They had both looked over Will’s cellphone, the first time he’d come home from college, ostensibly to see them but really to wash mounds and mounds of clothes for free and to do whatever it was that kids did to equal parts irritate you and cut you to the quick. The messages had been innocuous enough—asking how Will was adjusting to college life, whether he’d made any new friends—but there was something wrong with the regularity of it.

Young people were notoriously unreliable, yet Will found at least a few _hours_ out of his day to text his grandfather, strings of texts ending in eerily repetitive _I love yous <3_ that seemed anything but rote. Never in Will’s life had he ever said so much as an “xoxo” to them via text message, but here he was, sending countless little life details to a man he barely saw for—if he was lucky—ten days out of the year.

“Your father never said it back. Not directly, anyway,” Betty had pointed out, inscrutable look on her face, hand clinging hard to his arm.

She knew how little he cared for his father, and that night they’d found Will’s unlocked phone as he dozed in front of the television, she had started to understand why.

“You’ve gotten water all over the house, silly boy,” Hannibal scolds, wrapping Will up in a towel so large that it nearly covers him from head to foot, Will whining in mock-protest as he’s carried away from his grandparents’ bedroom window and deposited onto the bed in a fluffy pile of warmth and flailing limbs.

“That’s what you used to call me when I was a baby. ‘Papa’s silly boy.’”

 _God, you’re such a dirty old man, it’s almost a cliché_.

“It seems not much has changed in nineteen years.”

“Maybe not,” Will concedes, unwrapping himself from the towel and slipping out of his swim shorts. Pushing his hair out of his face, he smiles at his grandfather, lip caught between flat teeth, arms outstretched the barest bit as if yearning to be held.

 _I loved you so much_ , he thinks, then, _I love you even more now_.

“I cannot be alone with you all night, Will,” Papa says, matter-of-fact, and Will _knows_ , because there’s dinner and cake and probably a few presents hidden somewhere downstairs. But if his bird’s eye view from the window had revealed anything, it was that half the party was already well past drunk, and if they’re very quiet and very careful, maybe Harris won’t be cognizant enough to stumble his inebriated self upstairs to find his father fucking his son.

“Mhm, but just—Just a second,” he half-begs, tired of waiting to be grasped and grabbed and bruised in places his parents won’t see, reaching out to tug his grandfather closer by the wrist.

“One-thousand-and-one,” Hannibal smiles, the way he used to while playing hide and seek, purposefully literal and purposefully misunderstanding whenever Will claimed he’d only need two seconds to dash his way into someplace where Papa would _neeeeever find him_.

Will doesn’t waste another moment, whimpering something halfway between pleasure and amused disbelief as Papa’s beard tickles the smooth skin of his face, tongue tracing his grandfather’s lower lip as Hannibal finally puts hands on him, cupping his ass and squeezing till Will gasps and blushes at the handprints he’ll surely have partially on display when he walks back downstairs in the short-shorts that were the only thing he packed to wear for the next three days.

Somehow, he finds the wherewithal to undo Hannibal’s belt and manages his fly one-handed, gasp-moaning, the sound lost between their mouths, as he feels Papa’s thick cock twitch in his hand.

“I can be quick,” he whispers, an amorphous sound, but Hannibal already understands what he means, shoving his pants down just enough to get his cock out of his boxers. In this position, stretched over Will the way he’d no doubt loomed over Alana not so long ago, he has leverage to fuck Will’s face without Will being able to do much about it but lie there and take it.

But they’re both old hands at this; if Will gets to suffocate on Papa’s cock the way he wants to, he’ll turn red for hours after, and there’ll be too many questions. His parents are permissive enough, but even they’ll ask questions about why he looks piss drunk despite only having a beer earlier, if they’re not already abandoning their posts at the bar and coming inside to look for him.

Hannibal silently moves to stand along the edge of the bed, his own hand jerking a steady rhythm as Will rearranges himself to fit, on his hands and knees, ass in the air as his hole clenches around nothing, his body thinking it knows how this is supposed to end.

“And be quiet,” Hannibal reminds, an almost cruel flash of sharp teeth, though Will doesn’t argue because Papa is right about how much noise he makes. Happy little keens, whenever Papa gives him what he _craves_. 

His smaller hand joins Papa’s, index finger tracing the vein on the underside of his foreskin, and Will thinks, nonsensically, that he likes the way their hands tangle together, Papa’s skin slightly tanned from his time outdoors, Will’s barely freckled from his own time at the beach.

Papa’s glans is already wet with precome, and Will feels his own cock drip in sympathy. Laving his tongue around the warm wetness, he reacquaints himself with the taste and smell of his grandfather’s skin. Aftershave and cut grass, the tug of strong hands in his hair.

Barely adjusted to the feel of Papa stretching his lips taut, he’s forced to take most of Hannibal’s cock by a hand on the nape of his neck, and his eyes close, rolling in pleasure.

He thinks it must be almost comical how much he enjoys it, whether the near-debasement, his grandfather’s strength, or some combination of both, but his toes still curl in embarrassment as the sloppy-wet sound of his drooling mouth around Hannibal’s cock echoes throughout the quiet room. The only other sound Papa’s muted grunts as Will struggles to breathe from his nose and not come untouched at the subtle bulk of Hannibal’s gut pressing against his head.

Whimpering softly as Hannibal’s thrusts pick up—a minute later or an hour later from when they’ve started, hell if Will knows, floaty and drunk on being filled up however Papa wants him—he swallows frantically around the sudden burst of come at the back of his throat.

A thick, stray droplet or two falls from his lips as Papa lets go of the tight grip he has on his hair, but he scoops it up with a greedy hand and sucks it from the tips of his fingers, apologetically licking up whatever small bit of mess he’s left on Papa’s still half-hard shaft.

“Papa will see to you later, sweet boy,” Hannibal says, voice on the wrong side of patronizing, though Will knows it’s merely his grandfather’s poor attempt at humor.

“You better,” he says, arousal coiling low in his gut, though it’s quelled considerably by the pounding of footsteps up the stairs nearby.

“Will!” Betty calls, faraway at the end of the hall. “Where are you? Grandma told you the towels were in the closet—.”

Slipping on his swimsuit faster than he’s ever had to do anything before, Will sits up in his grandfather’s bed, making a show of drying his hair and glad that the oversized towel he’s using hides his diminishing erection. In the en suite, Hannibal has disappeared to wash his hands.

If his mother thinks this is odd, she does not say anything, merely glaring in what Will assumes she hopes is a discerning way before realizing that she has concrete evidence of absolutely nothing useful to hold against them.

“It’s time for dinner and cake. But cake first, Grandma’s insisting we get a commemorative video before everyone’s too drunk to stand. Chop, chop, get dressed, Willy.”

She pauses for a moment, as if unsure of whether to leave the room, but when Hannibal emerges from the bathroom, she spins on her heel with one last stern look.

“Grandma’s kept some of your clothes from last time,” Hannibal says, steering Will towards one of the many guest rooms, but Will, after checking that no one’s within earshot, says, hoping he doesn’t sound a fool, “I’ve already got something nice to wear.”

“Oh,” Hannibal says, a single syllable, but gravel-rough as the grip he gets on Will’s thin waist.

Everyone’s gathered around the table, Bedelia and Alana with their phone cameras, most others newly tipsy with beers in hand.

There are only six candles on the cake, plus the two for the actual year count, casting the room in an orange glow.

Alana gestures for someone to say something, because Hannibal is merely sitting there, pleased and silent as an expectant king at court. With a resigned frown that disappears in an instant the moment Alana fixes the camera on him, Harris coughs out, as if it pains him, “Uh, well, Dad, how’s being sixty-two? Was it everything you’ve ever dreamed?”

A smattering of polite laughter, the candles very bright in Alana’s dark eyes.

“I have everything I could ever want,” Hannibal says. “A wonderful family. A home that’s paid off.” More genuine laughter now. He folds his left hand over his right, elbows on the table. “And I am very grateful to my beautiful wife, who after all these years can somehow still stand the sight of me.”

Alana rushes over to give him a kiss, to claps and collective _awwwws_ all around.

Camera still rolling and motioning for someone else to carry on, Bedelia takes over the narration when no one is forthcoming.

“What are you going to wish for, Hannibal?” she asks, panning in close to see the eight candles, flames wavering and swelling to some unseen tide.

“If I wish aloud, it won’t come true,” Hannibal says, playing along, though there’s a private smile pulling at the corners of his eyes.

Will, seated at the table diagonal to his grandfather, feels his Papa’s pleased, secret smirk acutely as if Hannibal had sunk the impression of it deep into his skin.

A few beats, Papa looking proudly at him for a few meaningful instants that no one else would think anything of, though they stretch long in Will’s mind, a short lifetime in a second. Eventually, time resumes, and the cameras roll on.

Hannibal blows the candles out, and for the moments it takes for Dimmond to stumble towards the dining room’s dimmer switch, Will reaches out to cross the distance and touch his fingers to the broad ridges of his Papa’s knuckles, the two of them holding hands like lovers in the dark.


	2. anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why are my parents getting laid and not me?  
> Peeking beneath the throw on his lap, he traces the little pink hearts along the cuff of his left sock with the tip of a finger.  
> He loves me? He loves me not. 
> 
> -
> 
> Will behaves inappropriately in public, creating a little rift between Papa and himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this idea came knocking, and I wanted to write a second chapter. Please enjoy.

There’s no long-standing traditional way to celebrate the one-year anniversary of losing your anal virginity to your own grandfather, Will thinks sighing to himself and trying and failing to keep the dreamy note out of it, because Papa was _such_ a romantic anyway.

He’d swept Will off his feet and taken him to the old country club he haunted whenever he found it amusing to still be called “Doctor Lecter”, even years after retiring his practice to a starry-eyed little man with a French last name that Will thought always stared a tad too long at his grandfather for his tastes. Not that Froi-de-whatever would be any competition, no; Papa only had eyes for him.

“I love it,” he says, stroking reverent hands over a framed charcoal portrait that Papa had handed over to him after they sat down. The gold-accented gift bag and careful packing hint that his grandmother had a hand in this as well, and Will’s toes curl in his shoes as he chuckles to himself.

Poor Alana, not realizing the symbolism behind the pretty preparation she had done, folding the tissue paper over the frame with that kind, oblivious smile on her face. All that primping on a gift for her husband’s lover.

He doesn’t care what excuse Hannibal had given her for kidnapping him from his parents’ vacation plans today, since his every care is for the beautiful art in his hands and the artist himself, looking pleased as Papa ever looks, slight smile concealed by the bulk of his beard.

“Can’t let Dad or Mom see this,” he says, running a curious index finger over a startlingly real depiction of his own blue eyes. “They’d just say something passive aggressive like ‘you don’t ever smile like that when you’re visiting with us.’”

“Enough whining. Enjoy your meal,” Hannibal says, and like magic, a server appears with an appetizer—crab cakes with a twist of lemon, some of the best in Will’s memory.

“Papa, I _do_ love it,” he says, in a whisper. Kicking his foot out of his untied boating shoe, he runs it up his grandfather’s calf, thankful for the long tablecloth that conceals his teasing.

“— _stop it, Anna, you’re being a brat_!”

The shrill voice cuts through the serenity of the moment, and Will glares at the offending “gentleman” at the table next to them.

“You’re the one being childish! You couldn’t think to have an affair behind my back, at least? The _babysitter_. How trite, how awful, how unimaginative—”

“I’ve been married to _you_ for _seven years_. I’ve been faithful, I’ve done what you’ve asked me to do, and you accuse me of _filth_ that should be reserved for a supermarket tabloid.”

Will looks the arguing couple over with a dismissive eye.

He’s got a tan line around his ring finger, but he’s forgotten to slip his wedding band back on. There’s a smear of lipstick on the collar of his shirt.

_She’s_ botoxed to the nines and looks exhausted despite all the work she’s had done on her face, but that’s to be expected.

“Excuse me, I’m trying to have a quiet lunch with my Papa, could you two tone it down a bit?” Will asks, adapting an irritating drawl that most people his age seem to have.

The husband’s head snaps to him as if he’s being tugged at by a magnet.

“It’s none of your business, kid, stay out of it,” he says.

The same server that brought their appetizer makes a point of wandering by, looking down his nose at the arguing couple and asking, “Is everything alright, Doctor Lecter?”

Will’s foot ventures higher, to Hannibal’s knee, and he perches his hand on his chin. Papa would scold him for his elbows being on the table, but he’s otherwise occupied at the moment, Will’s toes now wiggling towards his thigh.

“You can make them go away, Papa. Just say the word.”

Will is flippant, though the server seems eager to carry out whatever order Hannibal will choose to give.

Hannibal’s hand closes over Will’s ankle like it has so many times in the past, pushing his foot to the ground.

“Don’t be rude, Will,” he says, maroon eyes cold.

Will cannot believe that not ten minutes before, his Papa’s eyes were shining with all the affection he’d put into his portrait, and exhales with a sassy grunt, making his displeasure clear.

“Whatever. _They’re_ the ones being assholes.”

He tosses his feet over the arm of the overstuffed chair he’s sitting in, naked foot dangling next to the one in its proper attire. Proceeding to lift a crab cake to his mouth, he swallows the tiny patty in one loud gulp.

The server pretends not to notice.

“Doctor Lecter,” he says, affects a shallow bow, and leaves.

“Finish your food,” Papa says, and Will knows he’ll pout at his grandfather and grumble and moan, though he’ll be a fool to not do as he’s told.

The _we’ll discuss this in private_ hangs in the air, and Will swallows, trying to hide his fearful anticipation, wondering if, for once, he’s pushed things too far.

Will is expecting the drive home in silence, their day at the country club cut short for his misbehavior, though what he does not expect is to be ignored the moment he steps through the threshold.

Papa isn’t sitting in the Jaguar anymore, though he hasn’t left the garage, instead rolling up the sleeves of his dark henley and donning work boots instead of the casual oxfords he’d worn to lunch.

Standing there like an idiot chewing a bit of his too-long hair, Will clutches the gift bag in his hands and waits a few beats before stomping indoors, hearing the clanging of a toolbox as Hannibal let its lid fall to the workbench with a noisy clunk.

Papa had bought an old Harley off of one of his friends, and he worked on it, sometimes, whenever dealing with Alana’s incessant cheeriness lost its appeal. No one in the family, save Will and his Papa understood the value of the old motorcycle at odds with the brand-new Ducati parked in the garage’s third stall, and that pulled at Will. He understood, but Papa didn’t _want_ his understanding at the moment.

_Damn it_ , Will thinks, going to his room and tossing the portrait onto his desk, where it gives a satisfying rattle. A second later, he panics and rushes to it, praying that the glass hasn’t shattered.

Fuck _. What the hell am I supposed to do now?_

Feeling dumb, he lifts the portrait from its bag and kisses the unblemished edge of the frame, everything still intact (thank God).

_Oh, Papa_ , he sighs to himself, and crawls, defeated, face-first into bed.

Mom and Dad have returned from the beach, sunburnt and extra wrinkled.

Will can’t stand the sight of them, and he hides in the den, waiting for the inevitable time when Papa will put away his work for the night and come back in for dinner.

The throw that would otherwise adorn the back of the long sofa is draped over Will’s hips (to preserve his modesty, of course, Dad still had his suspicions about Papa and his relationship with Will), hiding the tiny cotton-spandex shorts his mother had once purchased for him when he’d shown a belated interest in gymnastics as a preteen.

Gymnastics hadn’t lasted more than a single summer, but at least now he had an ass fat enough to fill out these stupid shorts. Coupled with a t-shirt a just size too small and the pristine white thigh-highs he’d bought on a friend’s phone (Mom and Dad snooped through his shit whenever they got the chance), he _knows_ that Papa won’t be able to resist.

Flicking through a medical journal that had the most _interesting_ commentary on botched cosmetic surgeries, he listens for the familiar sound of the toolbox slamming shut. He’s already been here for a few hours, caught the end of a romantic comedy on TV that made his lip curl in disgust.

Any minute now…

“Hey, kiddo, we’re gonna turn in, okay?” Mom says, peeking her head downstairs and sounding enthusiastic at the prospect.

_Oh,_ ewww _. Parents About to Have Sex alert_.

“Yeah, sounds good,” he says, pretending to be engrossed in a new article about gene splicing.

Mom hesitates for a second. Alana is in the kitchen upstairs, foraging for leftovers and maybe even within earshot, but Papa is still in close proximity to her boy and that’s a risk she shouldn’t take.

The pursuit of carnal pleasure must win out over common sense, because she throws Will a hasty air kiss and goes back upstairs, her footfalls heavier than usual.

_Why are my_ parents _getting laid and not me?_

Peeking beneath the throw on his lap, he traces the little pink hearts along the cuff of his left sock with the tip of a finger.

_He loves me? He loves me not._

Hannibal flicks the garage light off and shuts the door, silent as he crosses the small hallway past the laundry room and into the den.

Will is asleep on the couch, TV muttering in the background, one of Hannibal’s old research journals spread like a magazine over his middle. He’s kicked off his blanket in his sleep, legs splayed across the plump cushions.

Hannibal can see the little bulge of his cock through those obscenely tight shorts he’s wearing, and runs his tongue over his teeth.

Tickling the bottom of a socked foot, he says, “Go upstairs, Will. If you’re going to sleep, sleep in a bed.”

Murmuring to himself, Will blinks awake.

“Papa,” he says, soft and adoring, and Hannibal knows that tone of voice.

“You ridiculous child.”

Hannibal smirks to himself at how boneless Will’s grasping limbs are, sweet as he ever was as he lets out a happy moan at being carried like a toddler. His arms around Hannibal’s neck, he locks his ankles together as if afraid of falling. As if the supportive (and _hardly_ lecherous) grip Hannibal has on his ass would even allow for such a thing.

“Hey, honey, I was wondering when you were gonna come back in,” Alana says, pausing at the foot of the stairs. “There’s dinner in the oven. The pot roa—”

Alana pauses, realizing Hannibal’s not alone.

“Oh my God, look at how precious he is! I’m glad he hasn’t grown up all the way yet.”

She lifts a finger to her lips, her parting words held on a whisper as she backtracks upstairs. If she finds Will’s revealing attire odd, she doesn’t give any indication.

“As am I,” Hannibal says, kissing Will’s temple, his grandson nuzzling against him, no longer needing to feign sleep.

_He must think all is forgiven_ , Hannibal smirks to himself. _Poor thing; he is wrong._

Will is kicking in his sleep.

Hannibal awakes to Will’s foot jamming its way into his calf, and his mouth flattens.

Alana had retired to bed after her late supper, and had not sought him out after, so he knew it had been safe to stay at least a few hours spanking Will till he cried and yielded, his mouth velvet soft as always, his lithe little body always ready to fit Hannibal like a glove.

A few hours had turned into slumber, and now, he thinks, is a time to reap this twofold reward.

_If_ he can ever get his silly boy to stop squirming…

He pins Will’s leg with one of his own, and throws the blankets off them. They’re both still nude, and Hannibal takes a long moment to appreciate his grandson’s pale, perfect back, his morning wood leaving a sticky trail of pre-come as he ruts against the soft skin of Will’s bruised thighs.

Whimpering, Will snuffles but doesn’t wake.

He’s stopped his flailing for the moment, and Hannibal lifts his boy’s leg, hand cupped under his knee, exposing him. Feeling fanciful, he runs the same hand up Will’s flat stomach and relishes the tiny bulge there, remembering the night previous, pumping his grandson’s guts full.

Truly, the boy’s beauty was the best of Alana’s and his mother’s, and the one thing Hannibal had to thank his useless son for was siring a creature such as this.

“P-Papa?” Will gasps, face turning, eyes and mouth wide as Hannibal’s cockhead finds his hole, pushes in through the mess of lube and come left there not a handful of hours before.

Hannibal guides Will’s smaller hand to support his thigh, Will holding himself open the instant he realizes what his Papa is trying to do.

Broad palm pressing to Will’s stomach once more, Hannibal fucks into him deeper, Will’s hips rolling against his own.

There isn’t much freedom of movement in this position, and it’s an awkward angle to try for leverage, but Will seems to be enjoying it well enough, wet cock slapping against his belly as he’s fucked.

He knows he’s not to touch it for a week, not after that display he pulled at the club, though he’ll receive praise if he can come when Papa tells him, without first touching himself to completion.

“Hannibal? Are you in there?”

A soft knock on the door. Alana, voice a muffled half-whisper, on the other side.

“You don’t need to keep checking on him, Papa, I’m sure he’s fine. Anyway, Harry’s making breakfast, so if you’re in there.”

_Harris._ Hannibal’s eyes narrow at the thought of his son.

“ _Papa, oh my God, stop, stop, don’t I’m gonna—_ ,” Will pants, hand no longer holding his thighs open, clamped over his own mouth instead. He’s sweating, face turning red as Hannibal keeps fucking him, otherwise silent, letting Alana think what she may.

Will doesn’t know the door is locked, but Will, for all his genuine intelligence and at-times arrogant mien, doesn’t know a lot of things.

“Be a good boy,” Hannibal says, close to a growl, and Will squeals quietly, spilling all over the already soiled sheets.

When they both hear Alana moving further away, Hannibal pulls out of him and arranges Will facedown on the bed. He refrains from pushing Will’s face into his own come, but only just.

“God, you are _such_ a dirty old—”

_The good thing about this position_ , Hannibal thinks, other than the obvious, _is that I don’t have to hear him speak if I don’t want to._

Will makes a token protest about being gagged by proxy, though he emerges from the bedclothes a short time later, drool framing the corners of his mouth, flushed and biting his lower lip. Always the coquette, even when he’s had his brains pounded out of his skull.

He kisses Hannibal’s bristly cheek, but swats at the older man’s chest when his Papa grabs a bruised cheek in his greedy hand.

“Stop smirking,” he yelps, Hannibal grinning at the sticky trickle of his seed along the curve of Will’s butt.

“Stop enticing me,” Hannibal says.

“Well. Guess we’ll agree to disagree.”

Will leans up to kiss him, chaste and sweet and the tiniest bit apologetic.

“Silly boy,” Hannibal says.

_He loves me_ , Will thinks, and smiles so hard his cheeks hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these woobies. 
> 
> You know the drill, find me on Twitter @penseeart if u like the Grandpa. <333


	3. memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dad looks like he’s about to choke at the thought of his wife and son seeing photos of him as an infant, but he puts on a brave face, Will snorting to himself at how Mom has to reassure him with a supportive hand on his wrist.
> 
> Ugh, this is so lame. 
> 
> Family bonding time instead of getting screwed six ways to Sunday in the guest bedroom? No, thanks. 
> 
> -
> 
> Will sees some old Polaroids of Papa that give him Ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in about an hour, I have no clue what I’m doing. 
> 
> Inspired by an old photo of Mads on a motorcycle (https://twitter.com/penseeart/status/1254961916457279490?s=21), and a lovely Twitter conversation with an even lovelier artist. <3

Alana tries to place the photo albums on the coffee table gingerly, but the sheer multitude of books in her hand causes a racket as she sets them down.

“I could have helped you with some of those,” Hannibal says, kissing the back of her head, chiding, and she blushes and waves him away.

“Oh, whatever,” she says, trying to sound younger, Will thinks. He can’t decide if she’s making fun of the way he and his parents sometimes speak, or if it’s unconscious. “Anyway, everybody please grab a book and start looking. I labeled the wedding albums, but the baby pictures are all over the place…”

Dad looks like he’s about to choke at the thought of his wife and son seeing photos of him as an infant, but he puts on a brave face, Will snorting to himself at how Mom has to reassure him with a supportive hand on his wrist.

_Ugh, this is so lame_.

Family bonding time instead of getting screwed six ways to Sunday in the guest bedroom? No, _thanks_.

He’s flipping through a light orange booklet with an idle eye, chin propped up on his hand as his parents coo over Dad’s graduation pictures, when he stops on a page filled with nothing but various Polaroids of Papa on a big Harley, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. The snarl on his face is for show, but Will finds himself stirring, flushing hot at the menacing expression on his grandfather’s too-young face.

“Papa?” he asks, voice small and sweet, fingertip stroking over the photos through their protective plastic covering. “How old were you here? And what ever happened to this bike? She’s beautiful.”

Hannibal moves away from Alana to kneel on the floor behind him, between the coffee table and the couch, caging him in. Will leans back against him as much as he can without drawing his parents’ or Alana’s attention.

“Look on the back,” Papa says, putting a big hand on Will’s hip, then stroking soothing circles over his lower belly, both of their bodies and the edge of the table hiding his hand from view.

Will peels back the plastic and flips the photo over, mind still marveling at how long ago it was.

“Before I was born,” he hums to himself, as if disbelieving. Papa, the focal point of his entire existence, had lived a lifetime before he ever knew Will.

But Will knows that none of that matters now, not when Papa greets him every morning and every night they spend together with that proprietary gleam in his eye.

“I sold the bike to a friend. It was a compromise, after the accident.”

“Accident?” Will holds back a worried gasp, because Papa is fine and right here with him, but still, he hates to imagine him being hurt in any way.

“It wasn’t your grandfather’s fault, of course,” Alana says, cutting into their conversation, and Will tamps down his annoyance with a breathy, “Did you make him sell the bike, Grandma?”

He detests the idea of Alana having any sort of influence over Papa’s decisions, but it was Hannibal who had won in the long run, if the motorcycles parked in the garage had anything to say about it.

“Well, he picked up the Ducati a decade after, and it wasn’t like I could say no when he’d spent so much on it,” Alana says, a hint of irritation in her voice, though it clears like a passing cloud as she finally finds what she’s looking for, holding it up with a triumphant smile. “Well, Hannibal’s always made a point to be safe…But look at your father here, isn’t he adorable?!”

Will is loathe to move out of Papa’s grip, but he leans forward with an obligatory cursory glance at the squirming, red-faced creature in the photo. Dressed in a yellow onesie with a beanie cap on his head, his Dad looks like a whiny, indignant lump, lying there in his crib.

_Gross_.

“Aw,” he says instead, laughing to himself at the way his father’s eyes bug in embarrassment. “Look at your cute little feet.”

Weekend. Mom and Dad had some work emergency back home, and they’d left Will here because they thought he’d be okay as long as Alana was home. But Alana’s gone out drinking with her girlfriends, and what’s a poor boy to do except lie there and let his Papa fuck him full, all night long?

In the closet, alongside the photo albums that have been long put away, Alana had unearthed an old Polaroid that was now sitting on the desk in the corner, its lens winking at Will in the low light of the lamp. Maybe not the same as the one that’d taken those gorgeous photos of Papa straddling that Harley, but good enough. The few pieces of film Alana had found weren’t any good—Hannibal had tried unsuccessfully taking a photo of him earlier, spread out and fucked out amongst tangled sheets—but that was what next day delivery was for.

“Now you’ve got enough film for an entire spank bank,” Will says, giggling after Hannibal throws him over his shoulder and apologizes to the flustered UPS man holding out a small cardboard box only to be greeted with Will’s tousled curls and pale, love-bitten skin, barely concealed by tiny boxers. The door’s closed for less than a moment as Will tears the box open, packing tape that Hannibal will make him clean up later hitting the floor.

The larger box housing their loot falls down the stairs as he carries his grandson—who is greedily clutching at a powder blue Polaroid instant and its accompanying stack of film—up to bed. Will had promised he will use his new camera back at university to send Hannibal naughty things through the mail, the old-fashioned way.

Alana doesn’t usually open envelopes addressed to him, but he must be even more certain of it for the foreseeable future.

He smacks Will’s behind once, since the fireman’s carry is not an opportunity to pass up, and frowns.

“What the hell is a ‘ _spank bank’_?”

Will’s amused shriek of delight follows them all the way to the bedroom.

Alana is going through his sock-drawer, which is unusual in itself, but she’s also doing it under the guise of looking for the cufflinks she gave him for his birthday, and he attempts to disguise the pure rage he feels at his wife’s presumption as she hands him a sheath of Will’s photos (which, thank God, he’d had the foresight to transfer to a blank envelope not addressed to him).

“What. Are. These?” she asks, anger and fear warring in her voice and expression, and Hannibal knows which one will win, with a bit of prompting.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, takes a breath in through his nose. He doesn’t know where she’d gotten the idea to find them buried beneath dress socks and old ties he never wore, but he thinks it’s high overdue for him and his son to have a talk.

Betty, he could cow with a stern look, but Harris was a wild card he could no longer afford. Luckily, he knew some less-than-savory details about his son’s life before he met his silly little wife, and he could use them to his advantage whenever it suited him.

“They’re nude photos of our grandson. A grievous error in judgment.”

“Error in judgment—Hannibal, _why_ do you have naked pictures of Will in your sock drawer?”

She is panting and red-faced, and Hannibal vaguely remembers why he was attracted to her all those years ago, but the spark fades to nothing as he retrieves the Polaroids from her shaking hands.

“He gave them to me. Said some boy he’d slept with took them while he was drunk. He managed to get them back, but I wanted to wait until we were all together to discuss this as a family.”

Alana sputters.

“A _family dinner_ is hardly the place to—,” she says, then stops herself.

“Harry and Betty deserve to know. He hasn’t told them yet,” Hannibal says, and he hides his smile at the thought of the horror on their faces when he spreads _these_ out on the coffee table instead of the wedding albums.

“Oh, God, I can’t believe this is happening,” Alana says, fanning herself as if she’s suffering through a hot-flash. “W-Why? What happened to our innocent baby boy?

“Okay, I’m not _judging_ Will. I just can’t believe someone would do that to him!”

She seems genuinely distraught, and Hannibal, had he the capacity to feel her distress, might have put a comforting arm around her, for old time’s sake.

Instead, he presses a kiss to her forehead and tilts her chin up so she’s looking him in the eye as he tells her what she needs to hear (whether it’s the truth or not is irrelevant, though this time, it is a happy accident that they are one and the same).

“I’m only trying to protect him,” he says, and she gives a teary smile, wiping at the corner of her eye and uncaring for how it smears her mascara.

“I know,” she says, half a grateful sob, “You’re such a good grandpa.”

“Only the best for my Will,” he says, and chuckles to himself that she does not notice that he has effectively said _only mine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This verse is gettin’ twisty. <3


	4. vanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curling up in Papa’s lap, Will angles the camera so that it’s mainly facing his torso and legs, thrown over Papa’s own. 
> 
> Changing the filter so he likes it, he takes the photo and captions it as: Snuggling with him in the morning light. 
> 
> Hannibal nods his approval, and he gives Papa a thankful peck on the lips as he clicks post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College life. Hannibal surprises Will at uni. Inspo from https://twitter.com/penseeart/status/1256894328695255040?s=20 and https://twitter.com/penseeart/status/1258813290961973249?s=20 <333

Beverly glares across the table at Freddie, and Will rolls his eyes as the redhead flips them both off.

“If you hate us so much, why are you stalking us through the food court?” Will asks, and Freddie’s eyes blaze with some clever remark at the ready.

Will explodes into laughter as Price “accidentally” tips his open raw juice drink down the back of Freddie’s chair, and consequently, her Chanel blouse.

“You bitch!” Freddie says, cheeks red and white shirt now stained pink.

“Oops,” Jimmy says, trying to staunch the chuckle threatening to escape.

“Ugh, this town is too small,” Will says, tossing his fries aside with a disgusted snort.

On their way back to his, Will sees an older man—gone completely grey—chasing his happily squealing kids or grandkids in the little playpen towards the back of the mall, and groans to himself.

Thumbing his phone while the others are arguing about the best Avengers movie or something, he types

_i miss the way you gave me beardburn. college sucks. i love you xoxo_

He sees a read receipt, but receives no reply, not even by the time they’ve found their way back to the car in the immense fucking parking lot, and he bites down on a frustrated scream.

His grandmother had to be nearby, that was the only explanation.

“Why so glum, babe?” Zeller asks, Price smacking his boyfriend on the head.

“Maybe it’s that time of month,” he says, and Brian _yeah yeahs_ , though Beverly reaches over to squeeze his shoulder.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Perfect,” Will lies, thinking that it can’t be healthy to miss someone this much.

“So, got a hot date tonight?”

Will glances over at Bella—her long, shiny earrings, glossy patent leather skirt—and smiles, pretending at sheepishness.

“Uh, no. I’ve got a long-standing appointment with a _Miami Vice_ marathon that goes till two.”

Bella scoffs, but blows him an air kiss on her way out. “Alright, sweetie. Remember that eye-candy’s good, but a real man’s better.”

Will sighs in relief and she and Jack gather their belongings and depart after much horn-honking from Zeller outside. One of the benefits of having filthy rich parents was the single-family home he could afford rent on all on his own, but one of the detriments was never having a moment alone to himself.

He picks up his phone and thumbs to his favorites, pressing the top selection without even looking, already flicking through to the new _Killers of the Week_ special. They were gonna watch it together, and then pick apart the cheesy reporting style in the aftermath.

“Hello, sweet boy.”

The fondness in his tone makes Will shiver in delight, gnawing on his lower lip as he breathes deep to settle the overwhelming excitement that he feels at hearing that _voice._

“Hi, Papa,” Will whispers.

The TV is blaring news headlines and irritating commercials in Will’s ear, and fuck, why was it all so _loud_?

Cheek mashed against the couch, he blinks bleary eyes and sees a familiar form outlined by the blue light from the television, settled into the armchair next to the sofa like it’s a throne, legs splayed in a casual show of dominance that makes Will’s heart flutter in his chest.

“You should invest in hearing aids, old man. If you need the volume that high, you might be going deaf.”

“Since when can’t you sleep through a hurricane,” Papa asks, and Will mock-scowls, lazily sauntering over to plop himself in Papa’s lap.

“Oh my God, it’s four am. Why did you drive all the way out here…in your pajamas?”

The sweater that Hannibal is wearing is technically outerwear, though Will associates it with childhood camping trips and soft fleece the same color of a teddy bear that Papa had given him for his third birthday. The fabric is soft beneath his cheek now, and he rubs against it like a cat seeking warmth.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Papa says, as simple as that, and Will clings to him as hard as he can, eyes burning.

“I fell asleep before we could roast _Killers of the Week_ ,” Will says, pouting, and Hannibal smirks.

“Such a wicked boy.”

“I literally cannot help it. I’ve been _dying_ this last month. Wasn’t Grandma supposed to go on vacation with her little real housewife friends?”

“Mallorca was not ‘on trend’ with them this year. Your Grandmother chose to remain home instead.”

“She’s gonna try to give you hell for disappearing in the middle of the night. She already thinks you’re cheating on her with some pretty young thing.”

“I am cheating on her with a pretty young thing,” Hannibal says, palm curving about the round of Will’s ass, and while Will had been feeling groggy a moment before, Papa always did _inspire_ him.

“I wanna give her proof,” Will says, and regrets the words the moment they fly from his mouth, Hannibal’s expression morphing from admiring to cutting steel within the span of a moment.

“I’ve explained away the Polaroids. I’m not giving your parents another excuse to separate you from me.”

“But—”

“I still know things about your father that could destroy his marriage, but I doubt Betty’s parents would take kindly to that information coming from someone who did not have the wherewithal to prevent themselves from fucking their own flesh and blood.”

The words are a deep growl against Will’s ear, and Will trembles, threading his arms around Papa’s shoulders for support.

“B-but they don’t matter. They can’t matter—The only people that matter are you and—”

Hannibal cups a big hand over his mouth and nose, and Will’s stuttered breath warms his palm, eyes wide yet trusting, knowing the grip is for silence, not any malevolent intent.

“Insistent brat,” Hannibal says, the television behind them advertising _get rich quick_ and _how to invest in stocks and bonds_ , and Will knows that if he had to choose between a life of comfort and safety and a life that meant living half a lie with his grandfather, he’d choose the latter in a heartbeat.

“Turn on the lamp, darling. Stand your phone up on the coffee table.” The words are orders, not requests, and Will swallows, because he knows what Papa wants him to do and precisely why.

If they were going to do this, they were going to do it Hannibal’s way.

While Will would have relished the possibility of recording what they’re about to do on Hannibal’s own phone—and the risk of Grandma stumbling upon it while looking for recipes or cute vacation photos—he’s grateful that Papa’s even letting him have _this_.

Tilting his phone up on a few coffee-table books with the selfie camera recording and facing the oversized armchair, he strips out of his t-shirt and shorts with shaking hands. This way, he knows that Papa will have to support his weight, and since the arms of the chair are so high, he’ll have no choice but to let his grandfather use him rather than be able to ride.

“Come here, Will,” Hannibal says, loud and clear, and Will gasps, stumbles into his arms on unsteady legs.

He spreads his thighs around Papa’s best he can, and reaches for the fly of Hannibal’s pants, whimpers as he watches Hannibal tear a packet of lube with his sharp teeth, flinches away from the cold gel despite the warmth of his grandfather’s hands.

“Be good,” Hannibal says, low, and Will clutches at him as he presses biting kisses down his chest.

“Warm it up before you stick—oh,” Will says, legs spreading unconsciously as two fingers slide into him at once.

“You’ve been playing with this, I see.”

Will snorts. “H-half the things I play with, you bought for me- _eee_.”

Truth be told, there was a collection of toys upstairs that Hannibal knew nothing about (that Will got a kick out of paying with using a credit card in poor ol’ Harry’s name), but what was a fib between co-conspirators?

“Papa,” he keens, when—between the two of them fumbling for it—Hannibal unzips his pants and pulls himself out of his boxers, guiding himself into Will’s waiting body.

“Do you want to give your grandmother a heart attack calling out for me to fuck you?” Hannibal chuckles, sounding less-than-opposed to the idea.

Will buys into the fantasy. For all he knows, Papa will make him delete the video as soon as it’s done, but it wouldn’t erase the fact that for an hour, one single golden hour, there was proof that all Alana had to his grandfather was his last name and a diamond ring on her finger. Proof that Will had everything that mattered to himself.

“ _F-fuck_.” Will tips his head back and breathes harsh through his nose as Hannibal manhandles his legs over the arms of the chair and starts thrusting up into him, so thick it feels like he’s carving a space for himself into Will’s lungs.

Jerking himself as his cock bounces against his stomach, Will’s close within minutes, sweating and blood rushing to his head as he dangles—half upside-down, suspended in Papa’s hands and on the arms of the chair.

“ _PapaPapaPapaPapaaaa_.”

“You’re going to wake the neighbors, my love,” Papa says, exactly the same way he used to say _silly boy_ , exactly the way he’s _always_ said it, and there must be something so fucked in Will that this is what makes him come, every time.

Will’s cock sprays semen onto his flushed-red chest, dripping onto his belly and some finding its way to splatter on his chin as his dick bounces in time to Papa fucking him, his body exhausted from holding this position.

If it weren’t so uncomfortable, he thinks he could fall asleep like this, covered in his own mess, Papa pounding him into next week.

“Oh, I’ll make sure that they know your name by the end of the weekend,” he giggles, drunk on cock and on the rush of blood to his skull.

His toes curl as Papa lets out an almost savage grunt and comes inside of him, and he hums in pleasure as his body weakly tries to milk out every drop.

“That would not be wise,” Hannibal says, dragging him up by the back of his neck, and Will gives a reverent hum at the show of strength. He looks into Papa’s eyes in the dim glow of the lamp, and strokes the corner of his mouth as if his moustache is some new and intriguing creature to be discovered.

“This really made my week, you know. My—Well, my fucking month, I guess,” he says, too quiet for the recording to catch.

“Hush, William. Papa’s here,” Hannibal says, and Will conceals a grateful sob into his shoulder.

Breakfast is takeout from a vegan place that Bev took them to once, and Will nibbles on a tomato-egg substitute roll as he scans through the few screencaps he’d taken from the video. Papa, who somehow remembered to bring his glasses, is reading through the paper that everyone on Will’s block inexplicably still receives despite never paying for a subscription.

“Oh my God, _this one_ is going on Insta.”

Hannibal’s brow furrows. “What is ‘Insta’?”

“Papa, you’re sooooo fucking old. You’re kidding, right?”

He clicks on the well-loved icon on his phone screen, knowing that his grandfather—who has, at times, otherwise managed to navigate Words with Friends and into the shallows of social networking—is not kidding.

His feed and a few of his latest stories pop up—shopping at the mall with Jimmy before an out of town frat party and ice cream with Georgia at the new place on Brooklyn Avenue.

“You just, like, post pictures. I mean, I’ve only got a few hundred followers, so I usually don’t get more than a hundred likes—”

Papa’s squinting eyes make the wrinkles at their corners even more prominent, and Will kisses his cheek, does it a second time to feel Papa’s beard scratch at the soft skin of his face.

“I’m gonna have to explain likes, huh.”

“You are not posting whatever screencaps you just took online.”

“Aw, please, Papa? I’ll blow you before you drive back.”

“You were going to do that anyway.”

“Geez, touché. Can I take a normal picture, then?”

Hannibal raises a brow. “Define ‘normal’.”

“Just, like. No faces? Me on your lap?”

Hannibal is wearing a dark undershirt and a pair of sweatpants that are innocuous enough that they could belong to anyone. It’s doubtful that Will’s parents or Alana would recognize him if they could not see his face.

“Take the picture,” he says, and Will lights up.

“Thank you, Papa!”

Curling up in Papa’s lap, Will angles the camera so that it’s mainly facing his torso and legs, thrown over Papa’s own.

Changing the filter so he likes it, he takes the photo and captions it as: _Snuggling with him in the morning light._

Hannibal nods his approval, and he gives Papa a thankful peck on the lips as he clicks _post_. 

He receives a comment almost instantly.

BevKatzzz: _Wtf slut , u told bella u were gonna be watchin’ don johnson and PM Thomas not gettin’ LAID <333_

Hannibal’s lip curls, the slightest bit. “This is how young people communicate.”

Will can’t hold back his amused murmur at the disgust in Hannibal’s voice, though he presses his cheek to Papa’s and then settles to cuddle against his neck.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” he says, and muses on golden moments and proof and everything that matters.

“You’re welcome,” Hannibal says, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and the way he says it makes Will imagine that even a single golden moment together feels like it’ll stretch on into forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know where to find me, i.e. on the bird app. <333

**Author's Note:**

> I am @penseeart on Twitter for all you mutuals out there. Come talk to me about kinky Hannigram scenarios ;), I may not be done in this AU.


End file.
